One Day in December(88)

He doesn’t answer me, which is telling in itself. After a minute or two’s silence, I speak again. I don’t want to go to sleep on an argument, but I need to say this.

‘Maybe it’s time to ask about transferring back to London full-time. Brussels was only meant to be temporary.’

My suggestion sits between us in the dark. I know for a fact that he doesn’t want to transfer back, that he’s relishing the work out there. Is it unfair of me to even ask it of him? Or is it unfair of him to ask me to tolerate him working with someone who is blatantly making a play for him? And not just anyone, but his ex?

‘Or maybe you’d rather me just lie here every time you’re away from now on and wonder if this is the night Cressida’s going to catch you at a weak moment?’

‘That’s never going to happen,’ he says as if I’m being ludicrous.

‘You said “not really”,’ I spit. ‘I asked you if you wanted to, and you said “not really”. It’s not the same as “no”, Oscar.’

‘And it’s a bloody long way from saying I’d ever do anything, either,’ he says, riled. He so rarely shouts, it sounds harsher than it should in the quiet room.

We’re both hurt now. ‘We said that we wouldn’t let our marriage suffer for this job,’ I say, more softly.

He rolls on his side towards me, conciliatory. ‘I don’t want Cress, or anyone else but you, Laurie.’

I don’t move. My jaw’s so stiff it feels as if it’s locked in place. ‘We can’t do this for ever, Oscar.’

‘There might be opportunities in a few months to come back to the London office,’ he says. ‘I’ll put the feelers out, okay? Trust me, Laurie, there’s nothing I’d like more than not to have to kiss you goodbye on Sunday evening every week.’

I roll towards him, accepting his olive branch even though I’m not sure I absolutely believe him. Not just because of Cressida; he just seems more wedded to his job than to me sometimes. It’s as if he’s living two lives. One here with me as my husband and another that’s separate from me: vibrant meetings and city bars, sharp dressers, clandestine deals and celebratory dinners. He shares pieces of it with me of course, snippets and the occasional photo message, but by and large I can’t shake the feeling that he’s content with this ‘have his cake and eat it’ lifestyle. He’s a long way removed from my laid-back Thai lover; the painting on our bedroom wall seems more fantasy than memory. I sometimes think he married me as a way to try to hang on to the person he was back there in Koh Lipe; the more entrenched he becomes in his life in Brussels, the more he seems to realize that Thailand was only ever a temporary escape. His real life was always here, waiting in the wings for him to return and play his role. I’m just not sure I was ever cast in the same production.

‘Look. We’re married, Oscar, but that doesn’t mean we can just flick a switch and reroute all of our romantic thoughts and feelings along one single track. Sometimes we get tested. Let’s not be naive.’

We lie facing each other in the dark room.

‘Have you been tested?’

I close my eyes for a second, then decide not to answer that. ‘The important thing is the choices we make when we are tested. Being married isn’t just a legally binding contract, it’s a choice. It’s saying I choose you. Every single day, I wake up and I choose you. I choose you, Oscar.’

‘I choose you too,’ he whispers, wrapping his arms round me. I hold him, and I feel as if we’re wrapping our arms round our marriage; cradling this precious, fragile thing between our bodies.

But it feels like a tenuous pact, and I lie awake for a long time after he falls asleep, troubled.





21 November


Laurie


‘Laurie.’

Oscar spoons round me in bed, waking me from strange mixed-up dreams that cling on even as I surface. The glowing red numbers on the bedside clock tell me it’s half past five in the morning.

‘Laurie.’ He kisses my shoulder and slides his arms round me under the covers. ‘Are you awake?’

‘A little bit,’ I whisper, still in that fuzzy space between sleep and wakefulness. ‘It’s early.’

‘I know,’ he says, his hand flat and warm over my stomach. ‘Let’s have a baby.’

I open my eyes wide at the unexpectedness of his words. ‘Oscar …’ I twist round until we’re face to face, and he groans and kisses away anything I might have been about to say, hooking his leg over my thigh. Our sex is sudden and urgent, both of us still emotional from the tumultuous night before. We rowed again; or rather, we had words over dinner, as Oscar would probably phrase it. My fault – I asked him if he’d enquired any further about moving back to London full-time. It’s fast becoming a taboo subject.

Afterwards, we sprawl in the tangled sheets, reconnected, choosing each other again for another new day. I don’t know if he really meant it or not about the baby, but at least for now I know it’s me he’s thinking of.





2016




* * *





New Year’s Resolutions


1) A baby! Yes, Oscar and I have decided that this is the year we’re going to try. We’ve talked about it on and off for the last couple of months, and as of 1 January we’ve agreed I’m no longer going to take the pill. It feels like a huge leap into the unknown.